


He Should Treat You Like a Prince

by unkissed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Open Relationships, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:59:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2302370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scorpius, as much as he lies, also never minces words when he tells the truth.  And it hurts.  It feels like an icicle stabbing through your heart when he says that name.  You die inside when Scorpius speaks so bluntly about what he and Scamander do, even though you already know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Should Treat You Like a Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, Scorpius. Have some angsty porn.

“Is he rough with you?” you ask softly, plying Scorpius’ neck with feather-light kisses, though you already know the answer.

Scorpius is sitting on your lap, facing the same way as you are, both of you perched at the foot of the bed.

Directly across the hotel room is a large mirror, and you glance up to watch Scorpius’ reflection. He knows you’re watching and displays his naked body accordingly. He’s watching you too. And you watch him lie to your reflection. He always lies flawlessly, even to your face. But Scorpius rarely lies to you.

His eyes glance up at the ceiling, if only briefly, when he answers your question and that’s how you know he’s lying. He’s hiding the truth, and you wonder why Scorpius still bothers to protect your heart – doesn’t he know it’s already been broken?

“No,” Scorpius answers, devoid of any emotion.

“He should treat you like a prince,” you say with a tinge of sorrow coloring your voice. 

Your hand is splayed across Scorpius’ pale throat, but your touch is gentle, reverent. 

“He should kiss you,” you tell him with your lips ghosting bellow his earlobe. “Like this.” 

You kiss him wetly, closing your mouth over the side of his neck as if he were a ripe peach. 

You taste him and the brine of his sweat makes you needy, makes you eager. You’re so hungry for him that you want to devour him quickly. But you know it’ll be months before you taste him again, so you take your time and savor him. You commit the flavor of his skin to memory and you know you’ll rely on that memory to get you through the rest of tour. You’ll use that memory when you wank in the little tour bus bathroom, or when you’re screwing a fanboy who says he’s inspired by your music. Ironic, considering Scorpius inspired all of your music.

He cranes his neck like a white swan and turns his face towards yours. When your lips meet his for an open mouthed kiss, he is sweet and his tongue is soft, and it’s another memory for your growing cache. You manage to pull a quiet moan from his lips and it feels like a small triumph. You want to win all of his moans. You want to earn his hard cock. You want to be rewarded with his come deep inside you.

He pulls away, breathless, and rests the back of his head on your shoulder. “Lorcan doesn’t kiss. We only fuck.”

Scorpius, as much as he lies, also never minces words when he tells the truth. And it hurts. It feels like an icicle stabbing through your heart when he says that name. You die inside when Scorpius speaks so bluntly about what he and Scamander do, even though you already know Lorcan has been fucking your boyfriend for weeks. Your relationship with Scorpius has been an open one since you went on tour with your band instead of going back to Hogwarts for seventh year. Lorcan has never been a secret and part of you wishes that Scorpius had just slept with him behind your back instead of telling you first.

It also kills you to know that Lorcan isn’t treating Scorpius the way he deserves to be treated – Scorpius isn’t a sperm receptacle, he’s an angel, a deity, someone that needs to be cherished, worshiped, and loved. You hate to think of Scorpius being used like a two-knut whore, even though it’s mutual. And you worry about him because you know from Lysander that Lorcan can be violent.

Your hand slides along the sweat-slicked expanse of Scorpius’ chest, down to his taut abdomen. You gently brush your fingertips through the soft tuft of lucent curls that sprout south of his navel. You can’t wait to bury your face in it and drink in his scent – more memories for the taking. 

You whisper behind his ear as you slowly wrap your hand around Scorpius’ erection, letting each finger carefully find purchase around his hardness. “He doesn’t even touch you like this?” 

His hips move above your lap, allowing his cock to slide through your grasp.

“No,” he says through a wispy moan. “I’m lucky if he eats my arse before he fucks me.”

You have always been honest with one another. Scorpius has never been afraid to tell you anything. Even though you appreciate his candor, it’s still painful to hear the dirty details. Still you ask, because you’re so damn possessive that you have to know every little thing that happens to Scorpius while you’re gone.

You swirl your thumb around the weeping slit of Scorpius’ prick, which earns you a little sigh, and you ask, “He’s never sucked you off, then?” 

“Lorcan doesn’t suck cock,” he answers flippantly, not the least bit disappointed or bitter.

You chuckle wryly. “Doesn’t kiss, doesn’t suck cock - Sounds like a bloody diva. I’m surprised he hasn’t made you sign a rider.” You’re stroking him slowly, twisting your fingers around the circumference, just the way Scorpius loves it, and he only faintly lets you know he’s unfamiliar with the term rider. You explain, “It’s a contract, sort of. A list of stuff that the band needs in order to perform. Like stuff for the stage, but also stuff backstage.”

“Stuff backstage, huh?” Scorpius drawls knowingly and teases, “Can you put boys on your rider?”

You exchange giggles and it feels so good to laugh with him again, to be that light-hearted and uninhibited.

“No, but Daniel made us list condoms on it,” you say.

“Oh good. You better not bring muggle cooties back home to me,” he jokes.

You’re best mates again, laughing and teasing and making one another smile - Not jealous lovers, breaking each other’s hearts. And perhaps it’s a testament to the strength of your friendship and the power of your love that you can still be this way together, like nothing has changed, like you haven’t been separated from each other for the longest span of time ever in almost seven years.

When he lays you on the bed and pushes your legs back, your heart beats faster and harder than it ever has on stage. And as he sinks into you, stretches you, fills you, you consider giving up your rockstar dreams for him. Nothing could ever make you feel the way Scorpius does. Not even the euphoric rush of power you get when your voice and the wail of your guitar soar across a sea of screaming fans. Music is your life now. Scorpius is what you live for. Scorpius is your everything.

He nibbles on your ankle – the one that’s perched on his shoulder. He hides his smirk behind it, and his voice is muffled by your skin, but his eyes do all the talking. “Did you miss this?” He knows the answer. He has always known the answer.

Your reply sails on a breathy sigh, “Yes. Oh gods, I missed this so much. Missed you so much.”

He thrusts in hard and deep and he makes damn sure you will miss it even more. He’s not gentle right now, and in fact, he might even be a little brutal. But you don’t care. You want to feel him between your legs for days. You urge him with your moans and coax him with your hips, lifting them off the bed to rest on his thighs. He digs his fingers into your waist and pulls you onto his lap while concurrently pushing into you. You feel him deeper than you’ve ever felt him before and it’s almost too much.

Scorpius has never intentionally hurt you. Even when he made you bleed the first time he had you, you know it was not his aim to harm you. Any pain he’s caused has been your own fault because you can never tell him to stop. You’re both so new at this and he’s still trying to figure things out - He doesn’t always know when you need him to stop or slow down or go easy. You know sex isn’t supposed to be about pain – at least you hope that’s the case – but you let him push you to the edge of what you can tolerate. Because you think it will be more meaningful if it hurts – if you can hang on to the exquisite emotion of having him inside you by savoring that ache long after he’s finished.

Your delicate skin feels like it’s tearing. You should probably stop to apply more lube. But then Scorpius drives into you at a slight angle and you literally see stars – like you’ve stood up too quickly and the blood is rushing from your head. You make an involuntary sound akin to the groan one would release when being punched in the stomach, and certainly, there’s something jabbing at your stomach from the inside. It is like Scorpius has pushed a button deep inside you that intensifies your pleasure ten-fold. 

“You okay, baby?” he purrs. 

Fuck, you love when Scorpius calls you baby. And he only ever does it when you’re being intimate. You are more than okay. You could die right now and it would be totally fine because you’ve experienced heaven already.

You can’t even answer the question. Your hands clench into the sheets and you moan something unintelligible. 

His hips go still while he’s inside you. “I’m not hurting you, am I baby?” Something about the dark glimmer in his silver-blue eyes makes you think he rather likes exactly what he’s doing to you, regardless of any physical damage that may result.

You still can’t form words because the head of his cock is still applying pressure to that spot, making you feel like you could shoot your load completely hands-free. What you say is somewhere between a yes and a no. “Nnnyuuuh…”

He pulls back slightly and you mourn the loss of pressure. “I’m sorry, what?” he asks with an amused little grin.

Your green eyes pierce him with a feral look. You grab his thighs, dig your blunt nails in, and practically growl, “Shut up and fuck me, Scor.”

He smirks and teases you. “Merlin’s beard; who’s being a diva now?”

Even though you never did get to grab more lube, you somehow feel more slick inside. And you hazard to guess that he’s made you bleed again. But it hardly matters – the pleasure he’s giving you is so intense that you couldn’t be arsed to care that you’re bleeding on white hotel sheets.

You fist your cock fiendishly as he plunders you deeply, and you’re both desperate to come now. You can tell he’s close by the staccato rhythm of his thrusts. You’ve always been in sync like this – able to sense where the other is in your race towards orgasm, able to hold out for one another so that you finish together.

He’s near the edge when he asks, breathless and wanton, “Promise me I’m the only one. The only one who does this to you.”

Even if Scorpius were not the only one you will allow inside you, nobody could ever fuck you the way he does. You are certain of this, right down to your bones, when you answer, “Only you. I promise, only you.”

You don’t have to ask him to reciprocate. It had always been part of the terms of your open relationship. But he reminds you anyway, because it’s so bloody romantic and you both know it. “You’re the only one I’ll fuck, Albie. The only one I’ll make love to. You’re mine.” His hand is on your throat, carefully closing upon it without delivering too much pressure. It’s something he started doing when he first learned that you’d be leaving. And you know it is his way of asserting, if only just for his own peace of mind, that you belong to him.

As he delivers his final thrusts, he repeats between panting breaths, “Mine. You’re mine, Albus. Mine.” He comes with a strangled cry that is in perfect harmony with your own. And when he collapses on top of you, you can hear his barely audible whisper brushing hotly over your heaving chest, each word a pained, quiet breath. “Mine… Mine… Mine…”

 

You’ve managed to disengage from one another to clean yourselves up. In the aftermath of mind-blowing sex, you’ve both made a hot mess of the king-sized hotel room bed. You make visual confirmation that you had indeed been bleeding on the sheets and you swiftly try to hide the evidence while reaching for your wand to perform a quick cleaning charm. But Scorpius catches on and the expression on his face is completely broken.

“Oh, Albie, I’m so sorry,” he sighs as he swallows you up in an all-encompassing embrace. He whispers into your hair, “Why do you let me do that to you? You’re not supposed to bleed.”

“Because I love you,” you whimper. Your eyes get misty because you feel like you’ve disappointed him somehow.

“No,” he whines insistently, “No, no, no.” He clutches you more firmly, as if he could hug the pain away, which you are only now feeling since the adrenaline has been flushed away. “I don’t want to hurt you. You can’t let me hurt you, Al. You’ve got to tell me to stop when I’m hurting you because I honestly didn’t know.”

Something inside you crumbles and collapses. The façade you’d been putting up shatters and you can hardly keep yourself from going limp in Scorpius’ arms.  
You pull back slightly so that your eyes can meet. “Then stop.” The tears flow down your still-reddened cheeks. “You’re hurting me, and I want you to stop.”

The furrow between Scorpius’ brow deepens with anguish and confusion. “What?”

“I know I’m the one that suggested we have an open relationship. I wanted you to be free while I was gone. I thought it would be unfair for me to make you wait. But I can’t take it.” You put your hand on your chest and you let out a shaky exhale. “It hurts.”

He pulls you back and you sob quietly against his chest as he holds you. “It hurts so much, Scor. I want you to stop. I think about you with Lorcan and it makes me want to die.”

“Albie… My Albie… It hurts me too,” he admits softly as he gently tangles his fingers in the back of your hair.

“So why are you doing it? What are you even getting out of it?” You don’t mean to be belligerent, but it’s all coming out now and you can’t stop it. “He won’t even fucking kiss you or get you off. What the Hell is that about? Why do you even bother?”

“Why?” the tone of his voice rises and his fingers stop plying your hair. “Why?” he repeats and pulls out of the hug to glare at you incredulously. “Because I’ve never spent more than two weeks away from you in all the time I’ve known you. Because I should be sharing my last year at Hogwarts with you, but you’re not there. Because I go to bed every night without you, next to your empty bed, and I wake up alone. Because I’d go fucking insane if I didn’t have Lorcan’s prick up my arse to distract me from how badly it fucking hurts to be without you.”

He’s crying now and it’s killing you. You hold his head in your hands and press your forehead to his. “I’m sorry,” you breathe out. “This is stupid. Let’s stop hurting each other.”

“Please,” he insists, however his voice is ragged and faint. “Come back.”

You sigh and stare up at the ceiling feeling helpless. “I can’t. I’m under contract.” You know it’s a cold and awful thing to say, even if it is true.

“Fuck your contract, Albie. I need you.” He folds an arm around the back of your neck and you can feel his tears dripping on the back of your shoulder. It makes you shiver all the way down to your soul.

Then it hits you. The revelation is so logical that you feel like a complete arse for not thinking of it before you left for tour. “The contract. Oh my gods, the rider. I’m entitled to a personal assistant. I didn’t put it in the contract – my manager did. I didn’t hire one because I thought it was stupid – I’m just the opening act, for fucks sake - and I didn’t want some muggle to be all up in my business anyway. But you – you, Scor – you’re perfect for the job.”

His eyes begin to light up and the corner of his mouth quirks with amusement. “You’re going to hire me? To do what? Bring you coffee? Pick up your laundry?”

“No,” you giggle. “I mean, I will hire you. But you’re not going to do shit – other than be my boyfriend and go on tour with me.”

He raises his brow dubiously. “And what about school?”

“You can always go back and finish later. Your dad donated so much money to Hogwarts, you could probably go for another four years if you wanted.”

“And what makes you think my father would even let me leave school halfway through the year and run away with you and your band?”

“Oh, I’d never assume that. But I know you, Scor. And you’ve never done only what your father lets you do.”

You’re both smirking impishly now and giggling like schoolboys, because, well, you are schoolboys. 

“I always did want to leave school with a bang. What better way to do that than to ditch the place for my rockstar boyfriend?”

He kisses you, and you taste the sweet promise of tomorrow on his smiling lips. You don’t have to, but you commit it to memory anyway. It will probably make a good song, after all.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [True Faith](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2347580) by [ColorfulStabwound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/pseuds/ColorfulStabwound)




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